Kismet
by Darkness' Embrace
Summary: Some things are just meant to be.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling.**

**Warning: This story contains references to domestic violence. **

**Kismet**

I didn't know. That's my only defence, and it's a weak one at that. I didn't know that my youth would end up defining my life. I didn't know that my once commended sense of self-preservation would turn sour in my hands.

When you look at me, what do you see? A pale girl with ebony hair that isn't bright enough to be considered 'shiny', yet not lacklustre enough to be 'dull'? You might look at me and wonder, why does she never smile? I know that my perpetual scowl twists my face into something the exact opposite of beauty, but it's there. Just there. Same as the rest of me.

I am not as oblivious as people think. I know what they say. _Stupid. Slut. _Your coral-coloured smiles and winking lies do not fool me. Superiority. I can see it in every set of eyes. _Almost_. Some say that true love does not judge, but they are wrong. They must be. I see nothing resembling acceptance in my Draco's cool, fish-silver eyes. I'm not sure that there's anything in there at all. Have you ever looked at opposite sides of your mind, seen them stretched out inside your head? Sometimes, when life becomes too much, I pretend that I don't exist. I have no body. I am a fractured, floating, disentity.

_Line down the middle. Arrow straight with a pointed tip. Floating, floating. FLOATING. The barrier buzzes through me like sweet electrocutio__n. Nothing exists here. Nothing but cool black snow and fish-silver eyes. Close those peepers, honey, and runrunrun for your life. Zap me. BurstBangBoom. Explode behind your eyelids. Mine? Yours? Vicious fluorescence and limestone souls are the last thing you/she/me, will see. I feel a smile spread across my lips, and for a reason I cannot explain, this makes me sad. The type of sadness that comes from deep in your bones._

I lie awake at night, and I see those eyes. It bothers me, that I see what I know I should only see in Draco's. _SHUT YOUR EYES! _People see what they choose to. This is a lie. Why would I choose this? Why would anybody choose to see something inexplicable in the eyes of their most bitter enemy? Viridian, malachite, verdant eyes hiding behind blurs of a past long forgotten. You know, it's just come to me that the human race as a collective puts far too much stock in what is written behind people's eyes. People see what they choose to see, after all.

When I offered up Harry Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on that clear night in May, I chose not to see him. I chose not to see a little boy with greatness thrust upon him. I saw someone else, someone from my wildest nightmares, the monsters that stalk my living dreams. I can honestly say that as those words left my lips, I saw _myself._

It's been how many years since the war now? I can't remember. For me, the years do not pass like water slipping through a child's fingers, as they do for so many. More like maple syrup dripping down, down, down through layers and layers of rock. Maybe, just maybe, the next layer will mean escape. It never does.

_The sun will come out, tomorrow! __Tomorrow! _

I get the logic. Really, I do. But how blind does one have to be to sing that, all tinny and high; and smile? It's a gift, I suppose, to be able to look past these murky, ever-present waters that cloud our sight. Obviously one I do not possess.

_It's only a day away…._

**~()~**

**Sixth year. **I like to walk. The corridors stretch out like long, bloodless veins leading away from the beating heart of this school. It never ceases to amaze me how something so weathered, so beaten, still stands. I know without a doubt that if this castle was me, it would be a pile of rubble by now.

It's a pretty day today. The sun bleeds through the atmosphere, soaking and heavy, filling people with something they can never quite explain. Azure sky. Shamrock grass. So perfect it hurts just to look at. It is on this brilliant day of all days, that I first see them together. I've always thought the Weasley girl was nothing special. Red hair that's not too red and not too orange, almost like the flickering of a candle when it first catches the light. Skin too dark, it clashes with her hair. In my mind, she was never a contender with me, never even in the same league. But today, with the sparkles of luminescent air that shimmer on her pearl-coloured teeth, I see beauty staring me in the face. I think what makes her the most lovely to me is not her smile or her hair, but who she is smiling at. Who is smiling at her. Any girl in _his _arms is beautiful by default. They just can't help it. Maybe that means I could be beautiful, too.

It's innocent, this caress. Linked hands there, a knowing glance between amber and olive here, and suddenly I have wanted nothing more in my life than to be wanted that way. To have someone with perfect jade green eyes to hold _my _hand and look at _me_ like I am his everything. _Everything. _I turn away. Looking at bright lights for too long can damage the eyes, especially those that are little used to the spectacle of such beauty.

Like kismet, I whirl away, my heart curling in desperation. Right behind me this whole time was Draco, staring at me with a peculiar look in his fish-silver eyes, and I jump guiltily. I arrange a little smile, just for him. It's meek, afraid. His eyes narrow further.

**/\\/\\**

It's a few days later, and darkness has descended over the castle. The soft, curling opiate that is nightfall invades the air, slithering thickly over everything, drowsiness pervading the senses. I can barely see my own hand in front of me, but it's better that way. Less to worry about. I'm pacing the main seventh floor hallway, thinking about Draco's recent erratic behaviour, when I hear them. The voices. Winging softly through the air, they perch on my shoulders, infecting my mind. I cannot help but eavesdrop.

"Did you get it?" A deep, smooth bass.

"Of course I did, you idiot. Now, remember what we discussed. You must do exactly as I said. If one little thing goes wrong, they'll know for sure it was us," A rushed, harsh tone. Tenor.

"I just don't understand how this benefits us. What does the Weasley girl have to do with anything?"

"Are you blind? Potter's head over heels for the dumb bint. I need this to go in her drink at dinner because I need her scared, and I need him angry," Scorching superiority.

"Why does it matter to you? It will have no lasting benefit for us,"

"I need him angry, because anger makes you weak. Angry people make mistakes, and I need him to make mistakes. Got it?" Sardonic, almost.

"Fine. But you owe me,"

I scurry into the shadows that line the corridors between the gas lamps, and hold my breath, but I needn't have. They both stalk away in different directions, but neither pass me. I'm not really sure what to make of this conversation. The only thing I can think of is that harsh, violent voice. _I need him to make mistakes. _Draco's voice.

**/\\/\\**

The next day is filled to the brim with something I cannot describe. Some deep, roiling emotion that makes my hands shake, makes me feel as if a large fist has tightened around my heart. I'm happy, or at least I should be. The Weasley girl is getting what she deserves, not to mention getting out of my way. On one hand, it makes me feel gratified, but in another, very real sense, there is something keeping me from contentment. I don't even know what it is.

At breakfast and lunch, I walked into the Great Hall with nervous, fearful eyes. For both meals I felt myself constantly looking back and forth between the potatoes on my plate and Ginny Weasley's goblet of pumpkin juice. Torturing myself. After all, there was nothing I could do. I just have to sit here and let fate swoop in.

At dinner, I deliberately sit on the far side of the bench behind a clump of giggling second years. Anything to distract me. Dinner is almost over, and I'm just scraping the last vestiges of treacle tart off my plate when I hear that voice. Smooth, charming, filled with venom. Blaise Zabini. He moves like a fearsome, slithering viper, sinuously rising from his seat and gliding across the flagstones without making a sound. I feel like I'm the only one that can see him. Suddenly, there's a huge commotion at the end of the Gryffindor table. A tiny first year with blonde ringlets is lying on the ground, her nose bloodied and bruised. Confusion laces her features.

_Draco. _

The upperclassmen, so bold and brave, rise and rush over to offer their assistance. Ginny Weasley's cup is left unattended. I feel bile rise in my throat, and I don't even know why. Zabini moves quietly, and with each step, I can feel the invisible hands inside my throat pry deeper.

Suddenly, so vividly that it shocks me, I see _his _face in my mind. The viridian eyes. _Those green, green eyes._

Before I know what I'm doing, I've launched out of my seat. With all the hubbub, nobody notices when I grab the back of Blaise's robes and snatch the corked flask from between his ready fingers. He doesn't fight me, but I can feel the tenseness in his muscles. He skewers me with his obsidian eyes, and right then, I know.

I know that I have just done a very dangerous thing.

**/\\/\\**

That night, I don't go back to the Slytherin common room until late. Five hours after curfew, I slink past the slimy, green-tinged walls that precede my home. When I enter the common room, it's empty. Just as I'd hoped. My eyes scan quickly. Faded velvet couches. Brushed silver framework. Something cloying fills the air, something thick, yet breathable. Pine needles. Rust. And there he is. _Stupid, stupid girl!_ Draco surveys me with a cold gaze. I shiver. There is nothing, nothing in those eyes.

"Where have you been?" Calm. (Before the storm?)

"Just walking. You know how I love to walk, Draco, dear," _Sweet, Pansy, be sweet. Disarm him._

I obviously have no knowledge of how to be sweet. He reaches me in two long strides, his hand snapping back as it lashes across my face.

"Don't think I didn't hear about your little stunt from Blaise. Stupid girl, when you sabotage me, you sabotage the Dark Lord," Hard. Harsh. Jagged.

He pulls me up by my hair, and I feel tears leaking from my eyes, sluicing down my face against my will. This is not Draco. This is not _my _Draco. It can't be. I close my eyes; I do not want to see this. People see what they want to, and I am no exception.

"Didn't expect that, did you? Well now you know. Why you would want to protect the Weasley girl is beyond me. Then again, you always have been weak, haven't you," Mocking and crass, his voice scrapes against my eardrums.

He lets me fall, and here I am. Lying at his feet like some sort of dog. He nudges my side with his foot, and I can feel the sear of his dragon hide boots radiate deep down inside me.

"Pull a stunt like that again, and you'll regret it," His whispered warning is more. So much more. I can hear the violence in his voice.

That is where he leaves me. Sprawled on the floor, tears and blood and bruises marking my skin. I want to yell after Draco. I want to scream and scream and scream until he cannot help but hear me. _I didn't do it for Weasley! I did it for _him. Emerald eyes.

**/\\/\\**

**Seventh year. May 2****nd****. **I am a coward. You don't need to tell me twice. But at least I'm a safe one. Beyond this heavy cherry wood door, a war rages. A war that I fear no one can win. How does one victor prevail when all that exists in between them is blood and tears? Dumbledore's office is nice, I suppose. Homey, round. I might have fancied it for myself at one time in my life. A frivolous, fanciful time. This day, I do not gasp in awe at the snapping peppermints or the long lines of ancient tomes. It means nothing to me. Nothing but goodness, something I have not been gifted with. I can feel the white, pure presence in this room, and each second that passes seems to allow my blackened germs to infect it more and more. I feel dirty. Dirty, but safe.

The best hiding spot I can find is a small, narrow cupboard that can be easily opened and shut from the inside. I have to manouever around a small, oddly shaped stone decanter filled with fine, silvery liquid, but I manage. It would be comforting, easy, to sit here in this place until the day I die. Why try? What is life? Nothing. Nothing at all.

I'm cramped in here for nearly two hours before I hear the office door squeak open. My eyes snap open, and I clench my fists, my mind whirring frantically. I strain my ears, listening carefully for the intruder's next move. I hear them move steadily in my direction, and in shock and horror, press myself against the back wall and tightly close my eyes. _Pleasedom'tfindmePleasedon'tfindmePlease-_

The narrow door swings easily open, and light bursts behind my eyelids. _Vicious fluorescents and limestone souls. _

I barely have time to catch my breath before rough, angry hands grab the neck of my robes, and yank me out of the cupboard, pushing me hard up against the stone wall of the office. He is dirty, his face lined with grime and dust. I can see the desperation, the violence in his eyes. Today, he is not simply a boy. Today he is a warrior. I can tell the moment he's realized it's me. His eyes ice over, hardening into stones, but he lets go of my robes and I slump to the ground. I can't look at him.

"What are you doing in here, Parkinson?" He sounds so, so tired.

"Hiding. There's a war out there, if you haven't noticed," My voice is not weak, rather the opposite in fact. It shocks me.

"You hide while brave others die fighting. Have you no shame?" I can hear the blatant disgust in his voice, and I blush.

I struggle to my feet, attempting to smooth my mussed hair and wrinkled robe. I need to look strong today. I need to look strong for _him_.

"Bravery? I call it stupidity. I will not risk my life for people I do not love in a war I cannot win," I say belligerently.

A sardonic smile graces his features, but something about it scares me. I never thought I would see him, _him_ of all people, look so _hard. _

"People you do not love? You mean to say that you don't love Malfoy, even though you hang onto him like he's an oxygen tank? You wouldn't fight for him?" He mocks me.

I feel my own eyes, usually so soft and malleable, harden in response. I may be a coward, but I am not weak.

"I have never loved Draco, and fighting for him wouldn't do either of us any good. He will do as he pleases. He always does,"

_Stay strong, Pansy. Stay strong. This is the enemy. _

"Besides, he isn't like you, prancing around, acting on the whims of some ridiculous hero complex. He'd hardly appreciate me doing the same, and he sure as hell wouldn't do it for me,"

"You know, Parkinson, for someone who's not in love, you and Malfoy sure seem pretty close. Or maybe you just bond over attacking first years during dinner," He smirks at me.

I bet he think he's so smart. _Green eyes._

"I had _nothing _to do with that. Besides, you should be thanking me. I saved you from a lot of pain that day, Wonder Boy,"

_Too much, too much, you always say too much!_

"Me? Thanking you?" A harsh, sarcastic bark of laughter that doesn't sound like his at all escapes his lips.

_Not that I would know what his laughter sounds like. Right?_

"Yes. Don't sound so shocked. You, not to mention your pathetic little girlfriend," I snap.

I immediately regret my words. His eyes become slabs of shining quartz, and I can see the anger buzz through his body, electrifying him. His lips turn and twist, moving in wild, complicated patterns, but I can hear nothing. Nothing at all. All I can see, feel, and hear are bruises. Bruises, and hard, fish-silver eyes. I can see the tendons standing out in his neck, his clenched fists. He's yelling at me, and I am frozen. Time congeals. As he takes a step towards me, I can feel the kiss of cold black snow on my exposed flesh, and all I can think of is nothing. _Nothing so horrible as this._

He starts towards me, and I flinch, sinking into the wall, I cover my face with my hands. _Please. Please don't. _I stay like this for what feels like an eternity, waiting, my teeth clenched so hard I can taste blood in my mouth, but I don't feel the crack of his hand.

Slowly, I uncurl myself from my hunched position, my eyes peeling opening cautiously. He's standing in the same position as he was before, one foot extended towards me, with an expression of something like shock frozen on his face.

"What the hell, Parkinson? What's wrong?" His tone is befuddled. Maybe just a bit horrified.

I straighten my shoulders and scowl at him, futilely attempting to regain my dignity.

"I have no idea what you are referring to, Potter," I sniff snootily.

He runs a hand through his already tousled black hair, making it stand on end. He appears frustrated.

"Did you honestly think that I would – that I – is that who you think I am?" He asks in amazement.

He seems to forget who he's talking to. The hardness is gone from his voice, but the tension in his body is still there.

"I don't see why you care what I think of you, Wonder Boy,"

Smile. Pretend like nothing is wrong.

"I don't care who the hell you are! Did you actually think I would _hit_ you? Just for insulting me? What kind of a person would do that?" He is angry again.

He thinks I'm an idiot. I can hear it in his voice.

"Well, Potter, apparently not everybody is as heroic and chivalrous as you are," I lace my tone with thick sarcasm.

I am gratified with my response, until I realize just exactly what I've done. I've practically told him my secrets. Let him into my mind. Abruptly, I want to cry. I feel my eyes swell with tears, and decide this little conversation has gone on long enough. He can hide in Dumbledore's stupid office, or whatever it is he plans on doing in here. I'll find somewhere else to go.

Straightening up, I stalk towards the great wooden door, keeping my eyes away from his face. He doesn't move, but as I pass him he reaches out, grabbing my arm. Firmly enough to stop me in my tracks, but gently at the same time. For a few seconds, neither of us move. He faces one direction and I the other, but I can feel him. I can feel him in every pore of my being.

"I don't care that you're in Slytherin. I don't care that you're a God awful bitch. None of it matters, Parkinson, because you don't deserve to be treated like that by anyone. Nobody does," His voice is fierce.

The lump in my throat won't go away, and I feel warm, salty tears slipping slowly down my face. I look away, gently pulling my arm out of his hand, taking the final steps towards the door. I can feel his malachite gaze resting on my hunched shoulders.

"Hey, Parkinson!"

I turn around, and to my surprise, he has a small smile on his face. It looks _almost real_.

"If I get out of this alive, tell Malfoy that I'll kick his ass if he touches you like that again," He smiles, but I can hear the seriousness in his voice.

Happiness wells up inside of me like a dam, and I know with sudden clarity that this is what I should feel like when I'm with Draco. I should feel like I can fly, like the Earth is nothing but a blip of nothingness below me. Spread out, beautiful, stetching towards the heavens.

All I can do is nod. Then I wrench open the door and walk out of our haven, straight into a dusty world of smoke, blood and death.

**~()~**

I'm older now. Years and years have passed me by, yet I cannot remember one thing about them half as vividly as I remember those last moments spent in Dumbledore's office.

_Viridian eyes._

He's a hero, now. Been on the front page of every single newspaper for as long as I can remember. He lives his life in a perpetual spotlight, and that makes me sad sometimes, though I've no idea why.

Yesterday, the headline of the Prophet was extra bold. Excitement swept through the wizarding world. Yesterday, James Sirius Potter was born. The happy family was plastered on the front page, clothed in brilliant colours, hugging each other; smiling. It was so, so beautiful, and it made me want to cry. Lovely things do that to me, sometimes. Ginny Potter – I tear up every time I hear her name – is radiant. She has aged beautifully, and I try not to hate her for it. Really, I do. But it's just _so hard. _

Is this really the nature of life? The luck of the draw? She gets the hero, and I get the villain. The one who I'm pretty sure hates me. Then again, maybe that's too passionate of an emotion for him. I probably just bother him. A flea on his shoulder.

I thrust yesterday's paper away from me, trying to get the image of that sweet, mewling infant out of my head, his mother kissing his forehead; but most of all, I try to forget the tall man with the green eyes, his arms around them both as he looks at them like they are the most precious things in the world. I wonder what it would be like, to be precious to someone, to have each breath you take be beautiful just because it's yours.

I look down at my protruding stomach. I'm seven months now. Soon, the halls of this cold Manor will be filled with the wonder of a child, another victim for this world to swallow. It's incomprehensible that I was there once, with innocent eyes and a sweet smile. Look at me now._ Bruised. Breaking._

Harry Potter never did keep his promise to rescue me, but I can't really hold it against him. The fact that he made it at all still buoys me up when I think about it. Why couldn't my little girl have a father like that? Somebody who loves her. Doesn't she deserve that as much as any other child?

I stare out through the thick, double-paned windows set into the concrete wall to my left, and I can see, feel, and hear the black snow as it presses against me on all sides. Tears fall down my cheeks. I don't want her to end up like me.

_Please don't let her end up like this. _

_God, please._

The front door opens, and I hear the thump of Draco's heavy overcoat engulfing some poor house elf. Panic fills me, and I shut my eyes.

_Pointed, arrow, straight line. I can see the difference on each side. Fish-silver cold, wings of luminescence. Which will I choose? As my heart yearns for one, I already know that it is the other which will claim me. A tear here, a crimson splash of blood there. What's the difference? It's all crying, anyway. I turn away from the brilliance of my past, and walk forward towards my future. Black snow and fish-silver eyes. _

_As I step across the barrier, I look back just once. Vicious fluorescents and limestone souls. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I swear that they weep for me. These bright, beautiful things bleed for my lost innocence. Without their pain, I probably wouldn't be able to do it, to cross the line into the blackness before me, but as this young beauty bleeds, I can see myself in it, and this gives me the strength to take one last step forward._

_Fish-silver and cold dark engulf me, but I am smiling. Smiling, because they live in my mind still, their lightness illuminating me from within. _

'You don't deserve to be treated like that. Nobody does.'

_Vicious fluorescents, and limestone souls. _

I will never forget you.

**FIN**

**A/N This was written for reallyhatebananas' 'Delve Into Shades Of Darkened Grey' Challenge. **


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